‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Martin’s eyes seemed about to pop out of his head. They had shared almost seventy five wonderful years there in nearly utter seclusion before it came time to move on. " "Then I wish you good night. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice. He crawled underneath the covers with her. ” “You like me?” “Yes. It is nothing at all for you to worry about. Suddenly he stopped short. “No, those are my brother’s dog tags. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance.
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